


Burning Red

by saintofnovember, under_a_linden_tree



Series: Burning Red Cinematic Universe [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Historical, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Multi, Poetry, Slow Burn, They Actually Use Their Words, Through-The-Ages, Wow, secrecy, who would have thought??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29104461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintofnovember/pseuds/saintofnovember, https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley fall in love with humanity, with the written word, and with each other. It isn’t easy to love someone quietly, when it is all you can do to keep yourself from shouting, from burning the world down with your love― but they'll do it anyway. They have to.We are striking a match in the rain and burning red with fire, darling.Let it all come down.Written by saintofnovember for the Do It With Style Reverse Big Bang, accompanied and inspired by lovely poems written by under_a_linden_tree!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Burning Red Cinematic Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2202333
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. Eden, 4004 B.C.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts, as it will end, with a garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It begins!! 
> 
> I am _so excited _to share this project with all of you!! The beautiful poetry is written by Linden, ([under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree)) and the prose was written by me, Egan ([saintofnovember](https://eganantiquus.carrd.co/))! __
> 
> It's been an absolute joy to work with Linden on this collab; she's brought so much to this story, with her words and her encouragement and 1 am yelling about mostly unrelated topics! I hope you all enjoy her poetry; it's beautiful and poignant, and the through-line of this whole work.
> 
> This work is a part of the Good Omens Reverse Bang! Special shoutout to everyone on the GO Events server, y'all are the absolute best. This story would probably have been a lot shorter without you, so, do with that what you will.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta, [Ghost_Honey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghost_Honey), for their work. They, as always, have saved you all from my half-baked sentences that I mushed together and forgot about. And, of course, thanks to my friends (you know who you are) who have listened to me yell about this glorious project for _months; _I now present it to you, fully formed.__
> 
> _Thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you on the other side._

**_One_ **

_Oh Muse, you teller of old tales, now weave a story,_

_begin when Earth was still anew and strangely novel!_

_A garden stood alone, enlivened by two souls,_

_of human nature, still quite young, enamoured with_

_the world and with each other, Adam and his Eve._

_An angel watch’d the gate, protector of the East,_

_the soft-hearted Aziraphale with pure white wings,_

_who out the corner of his well-school'd eyes the snake_

_\-- a demon -- noticed rise; called Crawley, ever curious._

_They saw when_ _Eve and Adam, sinners, were expelled._

_So there began a journey, lasting ‘til the end_

_of man, of forces sacred and unholy both;_

_the path is lost among the rashly moving crowd_

_they set out to protect, while as a beacon served_

_a match once lit in rain, a flame that brought affection._

**_Eden, 4004 B.C._ **

_Hell was crowded._

_Even this small room, barren though it was, felt packed with the ghostly bodies of each horrible figure who’d previously occupied it, all overlapping and talking over each other in a horrendous, ugly wall of sound. In reality, the conference room held only Beelzebub (Prince of Hell), and Crawley (a demon who would rather have been nothing at all, really). Beezlebub’s personality took up most of the room, and Crawley, who preferred to be the most intimidating being in the room at all times, had the distinct impression that he was trapped._

_He squirmed in his seat. Though his wrists weren’t cuffed, bound, or in any other way secured to the chair they rested on, Crawley couldn’t have moved them any more than he could have rationalized asking Beelzebub for a stick of gum._

_“So, Crawley,” Beezlebub stalked around to his side of the scarred conference table. “We have some…_ intelligence _... that the_ other side―” _here they rolled their eyes exhaustedly at the low ceiling_ ― _“_ ― _have gone ahead with the plan. It’s under way.”_

_Crawley said nothing._

_Beezlebub stalked closer, leaning over him in an uncomfortable sort of way. “What we need,” they said, quietly, “is someone…” They tipped closer, a hand coming to rest on the table near the arm of Crawley’s chair._

_Crawley leaned away, almost imperceptibly. He tried to arrange his face into a lazy sort of insolent smile; the sort that would help him regain some of his intimidation points._

_“...to get up there and make some trouble,” finished the Prince of Hell._

_There was silence, broken only by a slow_ drip-drip-drip _emanating from behind one of the close walls, and the ever-present droning from the demons beyond._

 _“What do you say, Crawley?” Their s’s were beginning to take on a mind-numbing_ buzz _not unlike that of the flies surrounding their face. With sinister sweetness, they added, “Do us a favor?”_

_Crawley discovered his vocal chords unwilling to respond._

_Smiling unpleasantly, Beezlebub pushed off the table. “Thanks,” they said. “I expect a full report… when you get back.”_

_They passed menacingly out through the door, and didn't look back. For a long time, Crawley didn’t move. There was a terrible sort of foreboding in all of this, and it glued him to his chair almost as effectively as Beezlebub’s presence had done. It was only when another demon, presumably on her way to Files, grumbled loudly past the grimy door that he shoved his chair back and dragged himself from the room._

_“Bloody Princes,” Crawley thought, gritting his teeth as he shouldered his way into one of the main hallways. Bodies milled around him, eddying like sludge in that narrow, dark space. Above him, far too close to his hair, a lamp fizzled and died. Crawley swore. Someone grabbed his elbow; knocked him into someone else’s shoulder. Unbalanced, Crawley stumbled into the demon ahead of him. They turned around just long enough to snarl at him before oozing away. Crawley bared his teeth at their back. “Always ready to make your day.”_

So, when Crawley broke through the ground of Eden, he’d expected― well, he wasn’t exactly sure _what_ he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t _this_. 

Eden was empty.

Or at least, empty of that incessant, demonic omnipresence so pervasive in every corner of Hell. And freedom from _that_ inescapable generality was all that mattered to Crawley.

Low, luscious foliage tickled at his scales from all sides, and a little ways away, large, shady trees swayed gently in a cool breeze. 

Crawley muttered to himself, tense. There were supposed to be _humans_ here, weren’t there? Wasn’t that part of it? He’d gone to the meetings, seen the slides. Where _were_ they? He poked his head out a little farther.

If he’d been in his usual shape, he would have gasped. 

In all his recent imaginings, Crawley hadn’t come anywhere close to anticipating the _sun._ Even the stars couldn’t compare to this heat, this bone-deep comfort. Warmth diffused through his whole body as he struggled his way out of the soil. Afternoon sunlight radiated down on his scales, and despite himself, he shivered. _“Leave cold,”_ he thought, distractedly, _“to Hell. This is― well, it’s too good for Heaven, either, I suppose.”_

With this line of thought simmering gently on the back burner, Crawley slithered further into the Garden. All around him, flowers drowsed, bees hummed, and bugs wandered. He gazed at everything with an achy sort of affection. Trust _him_ to end up as a demon, when he could have had _this._ If he were human, he wouldn’t even know about Hell, let alone fear it. _“Ah,”_ he mused, gazing around, _“what a fabulously awful thing.”_ He wasn’t sure if this statement encompassed the Garden, his existence, or the entire universe, but he was willing to bet quite a lot it could apply to all three.

Crawley spent several of the most glorious days of his life in that garden. 

When the sun gave way to the moon for the first time, Crawley wondered at its light. He marveled at the way a single flower, drowsy and yellow in the day, could look elegant and chilly under the stars. 

And the _stars._

They were far more beautiful from down here. He could recall with perfect, painful clarity that fiery passion of creation which had once burned through him, pouring from his hands into empty space. He’d lovingly shaped nebulas, molded and sewn molten stars, placed them one by one in a fascinating and intuitive pattern. _That_ sort of beauty cleaned you out, coursed through you like you were the only live wire in the whole blessed sky― but this? The whole world was spilt ink, fading at the edges and caught through with a thousand pinpricks of light. They were too far away _now_ to scorch and brand and seize Crawley with all their trembling burnt-fingertipped wonder. He felt wonderfully, damningly insignificant under that sky. 

As far as he could tell, the humans (of which there were only two, he’d discovered) were rather less entranced by it all than he was. For the first few days, they wandered in wide-eyed wonder, touching and watching and speaking gently. But― then they were different. The humans grew weary after a day in the sun, slept at night just when the stars came out. They ate things off the trees, too, he saw. Crawley hadn’t noticed it at first; too caught up in his own starry-eyed reverence for this place, so un-Heaven-like, and yet Heavenly, as it were. 

Why had God built them this way? Built them needy, and wanting, and then leave the world around them empty. He’d felt all that vast _space_ beyond the Garden walls. That wasn’t _Crawley’s_ fault, but he still felt a hitch in his throat when he looked at the humans. They didn’t deserve all that empty heart-space.

They had to leave, that was the catch. And _he,_ as it turned out, had to tempt them into it. He wasn’t sure how convincing he could be when all _he_ wanted to do was stay. 

And Hell hadn’t said _when_ he’d had to make some trouble, just that it had to happen. They really were terrible at specifics, like that. He’d wait, a little longer. Just to be contrary. Just to keep them all poised, unnecessarily, at their work. They couldn’t get at him up here, and nothing could _start,_ so it seemed, without _him._

 _“Wonder whose bloody idea that was,”_ thought Crawley, morosely. Then, buoyed by the thought that he might not have to find out for a while, he turned his mind to the subject of the temptation.

He hadn’t yet needed speech in this form, but that didn’t trouble him too much. He could probably just _think_ very loudly at the humans. They seemed like an alright pair, amiable and kind to almost everything around them. They were so unlike angels, in that way, that it unnerved Crawley. They were unlike demons, too, but… not as much as Crawley would have expected. The first time the taller-looking one had killed a bird to eat, Crawley had had to slither off to stare moodily at the sky for a whole night. Whether it was instinctual or not, the whole process was still kind of unsettling.

So the days went by, all clear and indulgent. On the sixth, Crawley decided he should probably get a move on. You could only push Hell (and specifically its bastardly Prince) so far. 

Crawley preferred subtlety over the performative torture so prevelant in Hell, but he had given it some thought, and had conceded that the first temptation of humanity warranted some flair. 

He broke through the ground, cracking it in all directions. One of the humans, the rounder-looking one, sat nearby. She gazed at him, unafraid. 

They hadn’t met before. Crawley had, in his time in the Garden, kept mostly out of their way. Now, he paraded in front of her, advancing low over the soft ground. Everything about him said _menacing_ in wide, bright red script. He hissed.

She smiled at him, and cooed.

Ruffled, Crawley stared back. 

“And who are you, then?” the human asked.

“Uhh,” said Crawley, unintelligibly. 

The human plucked a leaf from the bush next to her, unconcerned. “What was that?” 

“Uhh,” Crawley said again, before his brain kicked in and pushed words out of his mouth, automatically. “Crawley.”

“Huh,” she said, “Yes, I suppose that’s right.”

“Is it?” Crawley asked, surprised. 

“Well, not _entirely._ More like… it makes sense. Although,” she continued, somewhat conspiratorially, “you don’t have legs, you know.” 

Crawley stared at her, too shocked to argue the point. It would have taken too much effort to explain that he _usually did have legs, thank you very much,_ and besides, he didn’t think he was supposed to tell her that anyway. He was pretty sure this conversation wasn’t supposed to be going like _this_ at all.

“Well,” Crawley said, finally, when he’d regained the use of his voice (since when did he have a voice? He was a _snake!)_ “Uh, no, I suppose I don’t.” 

They sat there for a moment, pondering this. Crawley was beginning to think he should have planned further ahead, when the human stood up suddenly. “I have to go,” she said. 

“Oh, uhm… don’t.”

She furrowed her eyebrows. “Why?”

For the second time in two minutes, Crawley couldn’t speak. 

First shock soon dissolved however, and inside him, a fire flared. Once that beautiful current of Creation, it was now so twisted and blackened from his Fall as to be unrecognizable. Where space dust had once coalesced, anger bubbled; hot and swift. 

_She’d given the humans curiosity. She’d―_

Crawley hissed, harsh and acrid. 

The human took a step back.

As he slithered towards her, a thought surfaced dimly in the hot oil spill of Crawley’s mind. _This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She wasn’t supposed to be… afraid._

And just as quickly as it had flared to life, Crawley’s anger sputtered, and died. He slid back away over the grass, away from the human. 

It wasn’t her fault.

And now _she_ knew fear, and _that_ was Crawley’s fault. He hissed again, disgusted with himself. 

_“Terrible angel. Terrible demon. What’s left for you?”_

Crawley’s gaze darted around the little clearing, searching for something that would calm her. Soft grass, tall ficus tree, honeysuckle vine reaching towards a still pool; an apple tree, ten paces to his left. 

_An apple tree?_

Crawley was willing to bet all his red scales that there hadn’t been an _apple tree_ standing there a moment before. But the fact of its existence was undeniable, now. It radiated ethereal, resplendent glory, and Crawley instantly despised it. _Here_ was something God-made, _here_ was something he could turn his anger to.

Cautiously, he approached the tree. He could feel the human, still there, waiting. That was good. Perhaps a healthy dose of curiosity outweighed fear. 

The tree’s bark was warm, as though it had stood under the sun for a hundred days, and never known a night. Green vines twined around its branches, and in the shade of the leaves, red apples glistened like wet jewels. 

He reached out to one of them. Not with a hand, (though he would have liked to) but with an _intention._ In a moment, he felt his anger slipping away, followed closely by his most relevant jealousies, and the majority of his fear. 

If Crawley had had a brow, he would have furrowed it. _“Well,”_ he thought, _“alright then.”_

The hum of the bees became a noticeable sound again. Then, a slow, serpentine grin spread across Crawley’s serpentine face. 

_Here_ was something that could interest her.

 _“Human,”_ he hissed. Even if he hadn’t gotten the correct dramatic, evil flair on the first go, it was worth another shot. One more time, with feeling; this time for the history books, as it would be.

“I have a name, you know,” she said, as she drew close. “You never asked.”

Crawley was beginning to think he’d never stop being surprised. “Oh, sorry,” he said hurriedly. “What is it, then?”

“Eve.”

Crawley considered this, turned the word over on his tongue. “That’s nice. Eve. Like ‘evening.’”

“Yes.” Eve smiled up at him. “I thought so too.” 

There was a bit of an awkward silence. Well, awkward for Crawley. How were you supposed to tempt someone after you told them you liked their name? 

“Well?” Eve looked at him expectantly.

Crawley got back into character. Evil thought-voice. Dangerous tone. _“Eve, do you see this apple?”_ He curled the end of his tail around it, tantalizing.

Squinting, she answered, “Yes.”

_“Well, this apple will give you knowledge.”_

She raised her eyebrows. “What sort?”

 _“Oh, you know,”_ Crawley hedged, _“the usual.”_ After a pause, he added, _“The forbidden kind.”_

“Forbidden?” Eve looked intrigued. “That sounds… interesting.”

“Does it?” asked Crawley, breaking character momentarily in his surprise. 

“Well, I don’t exactly know what you mean, _forbidden,_ so that makes it interesting right off.”

“Well, it means… you’re not supposed to have it.”

Hands on her hips, Eve asked, “How do you know?” 

“Well... I just do.” Crawley was feeling slightly put out. If _he’d_ been this querulous, it was no wonder he’d been cast out of Heaven.

“Alright,” said Eve, amiably. “So it’s forbidden. The knowledge, that is. How do I get it?”

Crawley cleared his throat, settling back into his definitely demonic dramatics. _“You must eat of this fruit.”_

Eve reached for it. 

_“No! Wait.”_

She pulled her hand back slightly. “What?”

 _“Oh, well, it was supposed to be more dramatic than that.”_ Crawley admitted, a little morosely. 

“Shall I fall to the ground when I eat it? Would that make it better?”

Crawley drew back, curling around himself rather testily. _“Oh, it’s alright. Thanksss anyway.”_

“Okay, then. Suit yourself.” She reached up, and easy as anything, pulled the apple from its branch. 

Before she ruined his life, Eve smiled, slow and serpentine. “Remember me, when I grow up.” 

Crawley nodded. “Alright.” 

Then all of humanity broke loose.

Crawley had seen the angel before. The walls had been high, and far less interesting than the ground and the humans and the sky. But he’d seen that flaming sword. Burned all night, that one did.

Crawley slithered up the Eastern wall, now, listening to the first clap of thunder, away off in the distance. The width of the wall being decidedly too thin for comfort, Crawley shrugged off his scales and donned a black tunic, wings, and at the last moment, long, curled waves of auburn hair. He wasn’t sure where that last part had come from, but it just seemed to feel _right_ in a way nothing up to that point really had. He’d take any sort of _right_ on this strange day. 

“Well,” he said, conversationally, “that went down like a lead balloon.” 

The angel glanced over at him. He didn’t look afraid, only vaguely concerned. “Sorry, what?” 

Crawley repeated himself.

“Yes... Yes, it did, rather.” 

“Bit of an overreaction if you ask me. First offence and everything.” Crawley produced a drawn out vowel sound as he tried to get back to his point. “Y’know,” he said, conspiratorially, “I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway.”

The angel gave him a look of consternation. “Well, it must be bad―”

“―Crawley,” Crawley supplied helpfully.

“―...Crawley.” Then, looking appraisingly over at him, the angel continued, “Otherwise… you wouldn't have, ah, tempted them into it.”

Offering up his most casual _oh-it’s-nothing_ face, Crawley shook his head. “Oh, they just said, ‘Get up there and make some trouble.’”

The angel glared at him. “Well, obviously. You're a demon. It's what you do.” 

Crawley considered this, and decided he didn’t agree. But, best not to argue with an angel, and all that, so he moved on. “Not very subtle of the Almighty, though. Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a ‘Don't Touch’ sign.” He gazed off into the distance. “I mean, why not put it on the top of a high mountain? Or on the moon?” Turning back, he added, with theatrically wide eyes, “Makes you wonder what God's really planning.”

The angel made a face. “Best not to speculate. It's all part of the Great Plan. It's not for us to understand.”

At this, Crawley made a face right back.

“It's ineffable.”

Crawley made another face, this one slightly more disbelieving. “The Great Plan's _ineffable?”_

“Exactly. It is beyond understanding, and incapable of being put into words.”

Shaking his head a little, Crawley decided to change the subject again. They both gazed out at the empty expanse before them, where two small figures advanced warily over the sand. Crawley cast about for words, and then, because he _was_ a demon, he poked his nose where it didn’t belong. “Didn't you have a flaming sword?”

Unexpectedly, the angel turned away, guiltily surveying the horizon. “Uh…”

Crawley looked down at the angel’s hands as if he might still find the sword there, folded into his fluttering white tunic. “You did,” he insisted. “It was flaming like anything! What happened to it?”

Again, the angel demurred, offering only a weak “Uh…” in return.

“Lost it already, have you?” Crawley asked, smirking.

The angel said something incomprehensible.

Crawley whipped his head around to face him. “You what?”

 _“I_ _gave it away!”_

He kept talking, but Crawley could only stare at him, open-mouthed. An angel, given away his sword, and he’s still standing. _This_ angel gave away his sword, and Crawley’s talking to him. Satan almighty, what was the world coming to? It had only just begun, and― 

“... _don’t_ let the sun go down on you _here.”_ The angel looked around furtively, then back at Crawley. His voice was filled with a desperate, restless energy, and something unbearably like _faith._ “Oh, I _do_ hope I didn't do the _wrong_ thing.”

Crawley didn’t even have to consider it. “Oh, you're an angel, I don't think you _can_ do the wrong thing.”

The look on the angel’s face could have fueled the sun for a thousand years. “Oh, oh, _thank―_ Oh, thank you.” He swallowed, and added, “It's been bothering me.”

To escape from all that holy radiance now directed at _him,_ Crawley looked off at the two specks on the sand. They seemed to have encountered another, slightly larger and more insistent-looking speck. “I've been worrying, too. What if I did the right thing with the whole ‘eat the apple’ business? A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.” 

They considered this. 

“It'd be funny if we both got it wrong, eh?” Crawley grinned. “If I did the good thing, and you did the bad one.”

The angel nodded and smiled good naturedly, still concentrating on the vast expanse of sand, before his face fell dramatically. “No! It wouldn't be _funny_ at all!

Shrugging, Crawley turned away a little to hide his smile. “Well…” 

From the heavens, rain began to fall. 

Instinctively, Crawley ducked his head, shifting closer to the figure at his side. A few drops of water sizzled as they landed on the backs of his hands. Upon inspecting the skin, however, he found no visible mark. Then, glancing up, to survey whatever rent had torn the sky, he found that there was, in fact, no sky at all. Just a large, white expanse floating above him, muffling the newly-minted rain. 

“Say,” said Crawley. “What’s your name?”

If Crawley had found the Garden beautiful in the sun, he found it absolutely magnificent in the rain. Leaves that had been drab and muted now glistened, verdant, trembling, and lush. A steady, ever-present _drip-drip-drip_ of water, hushed by the canopies above, reached the soil in a comforting murmur. Flowers, laden with droplets, bowed their heads. 

Crawley and Aziraphale wandered through the Garden, a shoulder-width apart. Crawley, after a little while, meandered them over to the spot where he’d first seen the humans; a quiet little clearing not far from the Southern Wall. Trees covered the sky, so the grass was almost dry, here. (Later, Crawley would learn what most young children learn about dry rainstorm grass: it’s still wet, and so are you. For several uncomfortable hours afterwards.)

There was no reason to hurry.

Crawley slithered to the ground and into a position that may have, to the very untrained eye, resembled crossed legs; but in reality looked more like a complicated and rather inexperienced pretzel. Aziraphale eyed this display distrustfully, then seated himself primly on a rather surprised-looking dry rock. 

“So,” drawled Crawley, who, up until this point, had offered little conversation. “How do you like it?”

“Oh, I like it very much,” replied Aziraphale. He swallowed, casting his eyes around. “It must have been… very nice. For them, I mean.” He nodded his head to the East, beyond the wall.

“Yeah. They liked it right enough, I reckon. Almost couldn’t get ‘em to _leave.”_ Crawley touched a finger to a quavering, dew-soaked leaf. His hand came away wet. “Had a right job of it, I can tell you.”

“Can you?” 

Furrowing his brows, Crawley thought for a moment. “Yeah, I suppose I can. Just did, didn’t I?” He glanced around. “No lightning… though it sounded like it, for a minute there.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to furrow his brows, and he did so in such an intricate way that Crawley almost missed his next words. “No, no,” he was saying, “it’s not the lightning.”

His face was a whole performance, a Heavenly choir, just for Crawley. “Sorry?” Crawley said, when he’d regained the use of his mouth.

“It’s not the lightning. It’s the… oh, what do you call it―” His hand flicked the air irritably. _“Thunder.”_

“The lightning doesn’t make noise?” Crawley asked, momentarily distracted from Aziraphale’s face for sheer disbelief. “Why on Earth not? It looks intimidating enough. Are you telling me,” he said, leaning forward, “that it’s the _clouds_ making that awful racket?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Sitting back, Crawley shook his head dejectedly. “Well, _that_ wasn’t a very good choice. They’re going to be mixing it up for thousands of years, I expect.” 

“Who, the humans?”

“The very same.” 

They considered this. 

The rain continued all around them, pattered gently into Crawley’s hair, and onto his bare feet.  
“They’re probably quite wet, out there, you know,” said Aziraphale, all in a rush. “You don’t think they’re cold, do you?” 

Crawley squinted at him. The angel’s face was a knot of consternation, all scrunched up in fussy little worry-lines. “They probably are. But so am I.” He waved a hand vaguely at his wet hair. “I mean, what of it?”

Aziraphale’s voice pitched higher.“They might get sick! That’s a thing they do, you know.” 

“Oh, right. Well...” Crawley gave this some thought. “She’s not going to let them die. I mean, it would be a pretty bad trick, to give all this fuss for nothing. I spent a whole week with them, they’ll turn out alright. They’re even made of tougher stuff than me, I think.” 

“What do you mean by that?” Aziraphale’s hands fidgeted with themselves. Over and over and over, Crawley watched them turn. 

“Uhhh… For one thing, when I offered Eve that apple, she didn’t even hesitate! I mean,” he said, ripping up a tuft of grass in his excitement, “what sort of person just _takes_ something when it’s offered? Without knowing a lick about― about _anything?”_

Aziraphale gazed at him thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. They are here for a _reason,_ after all.” Then, slowly, he added, “You, ah… said there’s an apple tree, around here?”

A slow smile spread across Crawley’s face, and he unfolded himself to a properly demonic slouch, a real Beezlebub number, as he got to his feet. “Follow me, angel.”

“So let me get this right,” said Aziraphale. “You think that I got assigned to _guard the Eastern gate of Eden,_ just so I could let the humans out?”

“Well,” replied Crawley, tossing him another apple, “Why build all this world if you’re not going to use it? Right? I mean, what’s the good of all that… _desert,_ n’whatnot, out there, if they’re just gonna stay in here? And _that’s,”_ he said, shaking a finger at Aziraphale, _“that’s_ the good bit. Because here you are, one little angel, meant to stop them. Stop _me,_ I guess. And what do you do? Give the humans a flaming sword, and show them on their way! That’s right demon material, that is, if you ask me. Going against the word of God, and all that.”

Aziraphale held his apple stiffly, like its very existence offended him. (Never mind that he’d already eaten one, that he hadn’t even needed to be _asked.)_ “I don’t think that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, what’s a compliment, to you, then?” Crawley asked, sarcastically. 

Aziraphale looked up at the apple tree. He looked down at his feet, which were bare. He looked everywhere but at Crawley, and finally, he took a bite of his apple, chewed thoughtfully. Crawley watched him intensely. The angel’s face really _was_ fascinating. There kept being _more_ of it, the longer he looked. Finally, Aziraphale swallowed, and replied. “I’m not sure, really.”

“Doesn’t…” Crawley wracked his memory, _“...Gabriel_ or somebody say ‘good job, well done,’ ...or something?”

Shuddering dramatically, Azirphale shook his head. “No, and I wouldn’t want them to.” 

“Oh.” He took another bite of his apple. 

“You…” Aziraphale scrutinized his own apple as though it were a misaligned feather, something he could _will_ into place. “Do you, I mean? Do they compliment you… down there?”

“Oh, Hell isn’t big on congratulations. It’s just more paperwork for them.” Crawley had attempted to sound nonchalant, but thought maybe he’d fallen short when he glimpsed the look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh, my _dear boy―”_ Aziraphale began, then blushed, stopping himself. He’d reached out a hand, as if to comfort Crawley, and now he drew it back, a little, as if confused by his own instinct.

Crawley stared. _‘Dear’_ and _‘boy’_ hadn’t previously registered in his mind as words that could apply to him, but he found, now, upon examining the concept, that he didn’t mind them, at all, really. Aziraphale’s voice had taken on a lilting quality, something fond and endeared and far too familiar for an afternoon’s acquaintance. 

“I’m sure they’ll be happy about the whole ‘eat the apple business,’ as you put it, earlier,” Aziraphale continued. _“That_ will be one for the history books, I’m sure.” 

The angel’s voice washed over him like a balm, his words the sweetest wine. Aziraphale poured it all right into the blackened, hollow cavity of Crawley’s chest, and Crawley held out his hands for more. Dimly, he thought of his recent days in the Garden, marked chiefly by long dozes in the bright sunshine. That sort of warmth never stayed, always fled with the sunset, escaping the moon and his stars. Even soaked to the bone, drunk on the _newness_ and _fragility_ of it all, Crawley couldn’t help but notice the way _this_ warmth, _these_ bright words… how they _stayed._ Coated the inside of Crawley’s ribs, stuck in his throat like ash, like sharp bits of glass, like stars. 

“Thanks,” muttered Crawley, rubbing his arms, and attempting to sound annoyed. He wasn’t sure how they’d arrived at this point of conversation. “Anywhere else you, uh, want to go?” Then, after a pause, “The... uh... pond’ll be pretty, in this rain.”

Aziraphale looked at him. Crawley wondered how many of his thoughts were sewn reverentially where the angel could see; into his hairline, his eyebrows, the thin line of his lips. He didn’t think any rainstorm could scrub off this bone-deep sense of… what _was_ this, exactly? Something bright, like burnished bronze; and yet still molten, like new stars. It was tinged with another feeling, too; not sadness, exactly, but a sort of restless _hunger._

(He’d learn the word for this later, learn to call it _yearning,_ and _aching,_ and _falling;_ he’d learn it in a thousand languages; he’d know it even if everything else was stripped away.) 

Good, that was alright. Feelings couldn’t be all beautiful radiance and stardust for a _demon,_ he reasoned. It had to hurt, a little, right? He’d seen hunger in the humans; it made them take things. He could take things. Practically his job description, that.

“Oh, yes, let’s do! There might be _ducks!”_ exclaimed Aziraphale, in a way that made Crawley silently resolve then and there that _whatever this feeling was_ that hurt his throat, burned his eyes, it would never, _ever,_ cause him to take something from him this angel. Aziraphale’s face, a moment ago so soft and anxious, now held only exquisite joy on a silver platter. “I’ve only ever heard about them, I’m _sure_ you’ll like them!”

“Will I,” scoffed Crawley, falling into step behind Aziraphale. The angel was going the wrong way, but Crawley reckoned they’d wind their way around to it all, eventually.

When Crawley thought of that day, later, he didn’t remember the first time the rain cleared, or the way the sun melted, low and red, over the horizon, slipping the world into a fresh, clear darkness. He didn’t remember the way the night-birds came out to sing, or the way the moon looked, white and quavering on the still pond. 

He remembered the ducks, coaxed from their reed-beds and guided sleepily into palms; remembered Aziraphale’s gentle fingers as he stroked their soft feathers. He remembered the face of an angel gazing up at the stars for the first time.

_“They’re beautiful,” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh, my dear…”_

_“Yeah,” said Crawley, overcome. There was something in his eye, or his nose, tickling him._

_“And you made them?”_

_Crawley nodded, even though Aziraphale couldn’t see. They were lying on their backs on a bed of damp ferns, watching the sky. “Yeah. I mean,” he added, “I helped.” After a short stretch of quiet, when the only noise was the soft_ shuff-shuff _of the cool night breeze through the trees, Crawley cleared his throat. “Didn’t you… see them before? When you were on the wall, I mean.”_

_“No, never. Had to guard the gate.”_

_Crawley marveled at this angel, so righteous, so caught up in Heaven that he didn’t notice his feet ambling towards Hell. Or maybe he_ did _notice, and didn’t care. He’d given away his sword, for Satan’s sake. He’d talked to Crawley, hadn’t he? Was_ still _talking to him, and wasn’t_ that _the biggest mystery of all. If Crawley hadn’t long ago stopped trying to talk to God, he would have asked Her why. Why had She left this beautiful angel in the path of this terrible demon? Why let him near such kindness, and then trust him to abstain from ruining himself on its razored-edge?_

_Maybe She hadn’t. Maybe Crawley wouldn’t. Maybe he would keep on running into Aziraphale for the rest of time, just to annoy Her._

And he had.

Crawley found he didn’t need to argue with God when Aziraphale was around. No need to yell at Her about the emptiness She left in his chest when the emptiness wasn’t stinging his eyes, making his stomach ache with its depravity. The angel took the edge off, reminded him vaguely of that Love he’d had for God, long ago. 

This was different, though. That Love had been something he was built for, and left a bad, metallic taste in his mouth, like eating too many sweets. No one else had really seemed to mind that sickly sugared affection, though, so he’d kept his mouth shut until exactly the wrong moment.

 _“No,”_ Crawley would muse, probably while meandering through a little market, or pottering about his little flat, or driving at ninety-five miles per hour through a little of central London, an angel at his side. _“No, this isn’t like that. I did this, I struck the match in my trembling hands, and I’ll figure out how to keep it burning.”_

He’d work it out. He’d struck the match in the rain, after all; and there wasn’t much in the world stronger than Crawley’s will, when he put his mind to something.


	2. Mesopotamia, 2954 B.C.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me again,” Crawley said, slowly. “Where did all this start?” 
> 
> And the angel smiled, and Crawley decided that she would learn how to read all the languages in the world, just to make it happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends!! I'm so excited to share this next chapter with you! 
> 
> I'll probably say it loads of times, I have to thank Linden once again for being a wonderful partner and writer! Many of these early chapters would not exist as they are without her guidance and patience.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

**_Two_ **

_Between two rivers, under sun and golden stars,_

_markings etched in clay tell stories, low and high,_

_of empty spaces held together by red thread._

_They conquer roads untaken, seas uncharted, with their spell,_

_of wonder and of tragedy, a passion they ignite._

_We could tell a tale of an angel and a feathered serpent,_

_make it our own, embellish it with words and marks,_

_until it gets uncovered by the ones above, formerly unblemished, holy -_

_they’ll let you burn for their mistakes and ignorance_

_and I’ll be left alone in scorched lands, praying out loud:_

_Tell me again._

**_Mesopotamia, 2954 B.C._ **

The woman sat, cross-legged atop a wall. She wasn’t far from the ground, though she balanced as if she were; grey tunic draped over her knees, let down the ground in breezy waves. The wall atop which she sat enclosed a sort of dry little garden, all pebbly and sun-baked in the off-season of Mesopotamia’s hot summer. Though it certainly wasn’t as hot as some other places, (namely ones Crawley was thankful she wasn’t in,) it was still far too hot for flowers. 

Strewn about the flowerbed, where the dirt came high up, and close to the wall’s top, were dozens of little pebbles. The woman picked one up and weighed it in her hand. 

Crawley tensed. For a bare second, her adrenaline ratcheted up, heartbeat revving. In some bizarrely human impulse, she feared the woman might throw it. Crawley peered around the leaves of the meagre bush behind which she hid. She waited for the impact, the questions, the bruises, the _paperwork._

Instead of throwing the pebble, however, the woman simply turned it over in her fingers, rubbing at its rounded edges. From what Crawley could see from across the street, it was rounded, with a smooth little notch in one side, and the sort of color Crawley associated with… well… dirt. This dry, cracked dirt, specifically; all slightly variant muted shades of the same greyish-brown. She ran her fingers through some of it, adjusted her aching knees. She wasn’t built for joints, and certainly not these bloody _synovial_ things. 

When Crawley focused back up at the woman, she was still examining the stone. Then, with infinite care, the woman placed the stone on her knee. 

She gazed at it a moment, then searched behind her for another stone. She repeated the process with a second and third pebble. Wholly engrossed in her task, she only glanced up occasionally at the odd rolling cart or passerby, and even then it was with that blank, unseeing gaze of the preoccupied.

Crawley watched her, fascinated. He found himself doing a lot of this these days; observing those little, well, _idle animations_ that were only the start of the humans’ differences from the celestial hordes. This woman, free of responsibility for the afternoon, chose to perch on this wall, simply engrossed in her own thoughts. It wasn’t even _her_ wall. It was so confoundingly, utterly human that Crawley felt a little bowled over, like a bird knocked from the sky by an unexpectedly strong updraft.

When the woman’s legs were covered in as many pebbles as appeared physically possible, (several having slid off in the process) she surveyed her work. For a moment, she was almost perfectly still.

Crawley shifted uncomfortably and wondered if she was counting them. Did she need them for something? Was it art? A meditation? 

A commotion broke the otherwise still air. Both Crawley and the woman startled, peering back at the village square to the west. Squinting, Crawley shaded her eyes with a hand. Something small and brightly colored was sprinting in their direction at an alarming velocity, bringing with it a tremendous amount of noise.

As the hubbub drew steadily nearer, Crawley could see it was led by a child, running at full tilt, a piece of fruit clenched tightly in one chubby fist. Yelling triumphantly, it sprinted past. 

Bemused, Crawley watched the rest of the crowd (consisting of several puffing market-stall proprietors, a few more children, and a small, scruffy dog) bellow by. 

When the dust settled, and the excited shouts of the children had faded, Crawley looked back to the woman across the street. She appeared vaguely amused, a hand coming up to rest at her lips absentmindedly as she stared after them. Then, as if making a decision, she unfolded her legs, and hopped down from the wall. 

Pebbles rained down around her in a dusty storm. They made soft _pat pat_ noises as they hit the ground, circling and settling like so many coins upturned. Unconcerned, the woman began to pick them up, tossing them one by one into the garden from whence they’d come. Then, before she was half-way through, she dusted her hands off, looked at the wall one last time, and wandered away up the street in the direction of the crowd. 

Crawley watched her go, still marveling at her nonchalance. 

Half of her itched to go pick up the leftover pebbles, and the more demonic half (which usually had half the say in her actions) scoffed and told her to stay put. _“Someone will see you,”_ it insisted, _“and besides, what kind of demon picks up after a human?”_

Footsteps crunched up the street from the direction of the village square, and Crawley ducked her head, tried to remember not to breathe. Hiding here had been _such_ a stupid idea, she really would have to come up with something better in―

“Crawley, is that you down there?”

Crawley’s head shot up. A halo of pale curls blotted out the sun, silhouetting the person’s face. But she knew that voice, knew it even when the sun eclipsed it, when the darkness obscured it, and when it lay half-lit under the stars. That face was her undoing, and the awful part was that it hadn’t even taken two thousand years for Crawley to realize it.

“Aziraphale,” Crawley grinned, gliding to her feet. (The effect was ruined by the colossal racket of her cracking knees, but she’d take what she could get.) “Long time no see.”

“Yes, it seems some of the children survived the flood…” Aziraphale trailed off, eying Crawley. “...After all,” she finished, lamely. 

“What, you don’t like it?” asked Crawley, forcing a smirk as she swayed her hips, her tunic fluttering gently. “I thought it was rather fetching, myself.” 

Aziraphale blinked, took a step back. “The effect certainly is… ah, eye-catching.”

“You’re not bad yourself,” replied Crawley, looking Aziraphale up and down. The angel was rounder than Crawley remembered, like Eve had been, swathed in a miraculously white tunic edged in gold. The curls were longer too, falling almost to her shoulders in rich, pale waves. Actually, Aziraphale looked _pretty,_ all soft and warm in the early evening light. 

The thought was in Crawley’s mouth and on her tongue, and before she’d even realized what she was doing, the admission hung between them in the air. 

Aziraphale stuttered, cutting her eyes away and fidgeting with her ring before replying, “Many thanks, I’m sure.” A miniature awkward silence reigned before Aziraphale swallowed and began again, “Now, um, what were you doing, just now?”

Now Crawley felt heat seeping to the surface of her skin, prickly and out-of-place. She made a noise that included a lot of strung-together vowels and left out any relevant meaning. “Just another temptation. Have to figure out somewhere else to hide, though. Pretty conspicuous, in this.” She gestured to her black tunic, which shimmered with demonic and earthly radiance. 

“Yes… I didn’t want to pry,” Aziraphale said, with an amused glint in her eye that suggested otherwise, “but why _are_ you wearing that?”

“Told you, it’s _temptation.”_

“Yes, right. But do you really need to… _sparkle_ like that? It’s quite conspicuous.” 

Crawley frowned, rubbing the material between her fingers. “It’s _fun._ And temptations aren’t like blessings, I’m _supposed_ to stand out.” Frowning, she gnawed on a fingernail. “I think, at least. What are you doing here, anyway?”

Aziraphale sighed heavily and waved a hand. “Oh, some blessing for the most _unworthy_ goat farmer in the whole world.”

Stepping out from behind her bush, Crawley raised a brow. “Oh? What’s he done, given them too much feed?”

“Of course not,” said Aziraphale, as she fell in step beside Crawley, “He’s killing them.”

Crawley balked. _“Killing them?_ What about the _kids?”_

“I’m afraid so.” 

Crawley frowned, troubled. “I don’t think _I’ve_ been over there… what’s he doing it for?”

They meandered past a few low buildings readying themselves for evening; shops tidying up for the day, the inn bar-maid lighting a candle the window, mothers calling out to children in the street. Aziraphale waved to the bar-maid, who waved back, smiling a little.

Then she sighed, turning back to Crawley. _“I_ believe he’s doing it…” she looked around furtively, _“on his own._ I’ve tried to tell them,” she said, raising her eyes sharply to the sky, “but they just won’t have it. They think it’s _you,_ so they keep sending me about after you!”

“At this point,” Crawley drawled, “I’m starting to think it’s _us_ who’s learning from the _humans._ My side, mostly,” she amended, when Aziraphale scowled. “I mean, I couldn’t come up with _half_ the things I take credit for. It’s practically _all_ them!” She stuck out a hand, waving it madly, as if to indicate the whole of Mesopotamia, and possibly the whole world. 

_“Do_ keep your voice down,” chided Aziraphale, distressed. “There could be _people―”_

Crawley jogged ahead a little ways, then turned around to face Aziraphale, still skipping backwards. Leaning forward and cupping her hands around her mouth, she called, “There’s just _us!”_

Aziraphale bit her lip to hide a smile, still trying and failing to look chastising. “Oh, just the angel and the serpent?”

“The very same.”

Aziraphale glanced to the rapidly fading sun, and at the inn across the road. “Well then, _serpent,_ come in and have a drink.”

The whole inn had a well-scrubbed feeling that made Crawley’s skin feel scratchy. _“Maybe it used to be a temple,”_ she thought, miserably. That would be an _interesting_ couple of hours, at the very least. She’d never been in a temple before, and she reckoned it would take an awful lot to force her feet across such a holy threshold. 

When she reached Aziraphale’s tiny room, however, the scent of divinity faded from ‘teeth-gritting migraine’ to ‘bearable nosebleed.’ The moment she stepped through the door, Crawley rolled her neck, letting the tension fall away. 

She stood in the center of the floor, waiting for Aziraphale to return with tea, and taking care not to step on Aziraphale’s little white rug. The dust out here truly was unforgiving. No need to sully the room of an angel.

Staring around at the myriad of knick-knacks and dried flowers and throw-blankets and bits of string adorning the various surfaces, Crawley breathed out. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to relax. 

_“She’s been here a while,”_ she thought, studying each item. Some looked untouched; the bed on the far wall appeared perfectly adequate, but hardly slept in. Some things were well-worn, like the chair by the little window. Crawley could almost see Aziraphale sitting in it, letting the breeze blow through the empty window to ruffle her curls. 

A map, painstakingly drawn, adorned the wall over the knee-high mantlepiece. It was rendered in a fussy sort of ink, with funny little markings all over it. Maybe the angel had borrowed some copy paper from Heaven; there certainly wasn’t anything that clean down here. Everything was coated in at least one layer of dust at all times. Crawley squinted at the writing. What she’d originally taken to be anxious little pen flourishes, proved, on closer inspection, to be short, straight, and slightly serifed lines.

She’d seen these markings before, more and more, as of late. Never paying them much mind, of course; she was a _demon,_ after all. Not a historian, or some such tripe.

Turning away, Crawley’s eyes caught a dull shine on the mantelpiece. Without thinking, she stepped closer, examining it like a crow would a coin; first with one eye, then with the other. The results of her inspection turned up nothing satisfactory, so she stepped closer. A little bronze duck, its bill tucked under its wing, rested in between an empty cup and a candle that was melting steadily onto the shelf. 

_“Huh,”_ thought Crawly, _“a duck. Wonder if she got that commissioned.”_

If Crawley lied to herself, she could pretend that this attention to detail was all for future reference; her collection of evidence to carry back to Hell. _The Most Comprehensive and Authoritative Guide on Earth’s Only Angel,_ she’d call it. It would be compiled of the clear water of Crawley’s memories, of snatches of Aziraphale’s off-key humming, of late nights and time spent apart. There would be large gaps, pages and pages of empty space with only the occasional blot of ink. Crawley would wind it closed with a red thread every night, tie a new inch to it for every day she woke up thinking about Aziraphale.

It was Trouble, or at least Trouble’s student, who threw these thoughts about so carelessly, letting them smash like ink bottles on the floor of Crawley’s mind. They left stains, Crawley had discovered, ones you couldn’t get out, no matter how hard you scrubbed. The ink bled into the carpet, or the wood, and there was nothing you could do but try and make something beautiful out of it. 

Crawley had a _lot_ of unplanned ink art.

Trouble herself puffed in a moment later, laden with two steaming cups. Setting them down on the little dresser, she turned and smoothed her hands over her tunic. “Well, this is it, I’m afraid.” 

Crawley looked about the little room, as if seeing it for the first time. She nodded appraisingly. 

“I’m sure it’s much smaller than whatever your side puts you up in,” Aziraphale said, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the bedspread.

“Ehh… My side are… more concerned with the outcome than the means,” said Crawley. She was still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. There was the chair in the corner, and a footstool, and the bed. She couldn’t take any of them without being invited; Crawley may have been a demon, but she wasn’t _rude._ Well, perhaps she could perch on the footstool, but―

“Do sit down, my dear, and have some of this tea. The innkeeper’s wife makes it specially, you know.” She passed Crawley a hot cup and Crawley attempted to sit down on the footstool without spilling any. At the end of the whole wobbly ordeal, both Crawley’s dignity and the rug had acquired a dark spreading stain. Crawley put her foot over the one on the carpet.

Unplanned ink art, indeed.

“So,” she said, after taking a fortifying mouthful. “What’s it like around here?”

Aziraphale perched on the edge of the bed. “Well, it’s awfully exciting.”

Crawley glanced around. “Is it?” She’d found it excruciatingly dull, actually.

“Yes, of course it is! They’re―” Aziraphale’s eyes shone over her tea cup, which she held cupped in both hands. “They’re _writing_ things.”

“Huh.” Crawley found she didn’t have much more to say on the subject. 

“It’s simply wonderful; they’re terribly smart, coming up with something like that.”

Crawley furrowed her brows. “This doesn’t have anything to do with all those funny little markings I’ve been seeing around?”

“My dear girl, don’t you know?” Aziraphale reached out a palm, almost touching Crawley’s knee, and looking so theatrically scandalized that Crawley very nearly laughed. 

“Evidently not.” Crawley took a sip of her tea. It burned her throat on the way down, and her eyes watered as she tried to regain her composure. _“What I need,”_ she thought, _“Is an eyepatch. Except one that I can see through, and it has to cover both eyes.”_

“Well,” Aziraphale said, carefully setting her cup on the ground, “I’ve been cataloguing what they come up with, all around this area. It’s _fascinating.”_

Crawley hummed, distracted by the swish and tumble of Aziraphale’s robes as she stood.

From the wall, Aziraphale unpinned the map, and proffered it to Crawley. “Look,” she said, pointing to a particularly large cluster of squiggles. “That’s where it first originated, almost four centuries ago, now. I’ve been tracking its spread and use.” She looked so proud, so excited, that Crawley had to smile.

“But _why,_ angel? Is it, y’know, an assignment?”

“Oh no,” said Aziraphale sadly, “No. I brought my findings to Heaven almost immediately; thought they’d have something to say about it, you know.” She fidgeted with the edge of the map, rolling it back and forth between her fingers, covering and revealing a small copse of trees to the northeast.

“Did they know already?”

Aziraphale sighed. “No, they were just… less than congratulatory. I almost got the impression,” she glanced quickly at the sky, and then continued, hushed, “that they were _uninterested.”_

Crawley, having experience with superiors who took very little interest in her _valuable_ but _easily distracted, somewhat long-sighted_ work, brightened up. “Oh, they told you to get back to your blessings, did they? Tend to your sheep?”

“Oh no, nothing of the sort!” Aziraphale still held out the map, though she appeared to have forgotten about it. She gazed at the floor. “It would just be nice…”

“What?”

Heaving another sigh, Aziraphale continued. “It would be nice to _talk_ to someone, about all of this. Nothing for it, though, I suppose,” she added, pulling the map from Crawley’s fingertips, “no one else has been around as long as me, and I can’t tell _them―”_ she reached up to pin the thing back on the wall, straining on her tiptoes to reach over the mantelpiece, “―that I’m―”

“An immortal being?” Crawley asked, taking the pin and tacking up the last corner. “Yeah, that probably wouldn’t go over too well. ‘Hello,’” she said, in a faux deep voice, “‘I am an Angel. I am here to teach you the history of this incredibly interesting and not at all boring... writing thing.” She held out her arms for emphasis. “Do not be afraid,” she finished, glaring down at Aziraphale.

“Oh, dear. Yes, I imagine you’re quite right.” Aziraphale dropped to the bed, looked back up at Crawley, expectantly. “If _only_ there was someone who’d been around as long as I have…”

“Oh _alright,_ alright,” Crawley muttered, surrendering. “Learn me a thing, angel.”

“Oh, really?” Instantly brightening, Aziraphale clapped her hands together.

“Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.”

“And _so―”_ Aziraphale finished her last mark with a flourish― “you have two whole beautiful sentences describing a transaction of two mule for a week’s worth of eggs.”

Chin in her hand, Crawley stared down dejectedly at the clay. “Have to be pretty old mules, then.” 

Aziraphale wiped her hands on a towel. “What?” 

“To only be worth half a week of eggs.” 

“Crawley,” said Aziraphale, “that’s neither here nor there, and you know it.” When she spoke again, her voice was hushed, her eyes bright in the candlelight. “Isn’t it _interesting_ though?” 

“Uh, yeah. Definitely. Most interesting thing I’ve seen all day.” Crawley hadn’t actually paid much attention to the markings as Aziraphale made them. She’d only half-listened to the angel’s chatter as she explained each indent, each angular embellishment; just let the firm cadence of Aziraphale’s voice wash over her, soothing away all else. 

The angel’s hands, so gentle and strong, were actually the most interesting part of all. Each stroke of the stylus brought a new plane of skin into focus: here, the wrist; here, the knuckles; now, flexed tendons and trim fingernails.

“Tell me again,” Crawley said, slowly. “Where did all this start?” 

And the angel smiled, and Crawley decided that she would learn how to read all the languages in the world, just to make it happen again.

As the night wore on, Crawley discovered that (mostly against her will,) she was _learning_ something. She’d begun to recognize patterns in the symbols, to watch for certain groups of lines and triangles to appear together in sequence. Mostly, they still swam before her, muddying their meanings horribly. But every so often, light shone through the troubled waters, illuminating a word or phrase, and Crawley would shout triumphantly, and redouble her efforts.

Finally though, when the third immense yawn split her face, she rubbed her aching eyes. “Aziraphale,” she said, “‘M sorry― I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. Snake eyes, you know me.” 

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry, you should have said something!” Aziraphale set down her stylus, and laid a hand on Crawley’s arm. “You’ve done wondrously well,” she said. 

Crawley sat stiffly, ruffled. “Haven’t,” she insisted.

“Come now,” Aziraphale insisted gently. “I didn’t learn this in a night either, you know. Cuneiform wasn’t invented in a day.”

Crawley mumbled something incomprehensible. 

“What was that?”

“Thanksss,” Crawley hissed, thrusting herself back in her chair, ripping her arm from Aziraphale’s touch. _Keep away from the sun, you useless snake. There’s nothing here that’ll end well, and you’ll be the one burning for it, again._

But Crawley couldn’t even bring herself to care about burning, even for a second time. She could see Aziraphale’s hair, silhouetted by the candlelight as she stowed away her supplies. _“Oh no,”_ she thought, wretchedly. _“it’ll be_ her, _not you. They’ll take her, and that’s how they’ll get to you.”_

Roughly, Crawley stood up. 

Aziraphale turned, startled. “Whatever’s the matter?”

At the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, a conclusion within Crawley settled into place, clear and sure as a freshly tuned bell. 

_You cannot lose her and survive._

Crawley cleared her throat, searching for something to pin her to Aziraphale’s wall, spread her out like a favoured parchment―even as she knew she should tear herself away; flee, even if she rent her own heart in the process, and left it bleeding and feverish upon the floor. She pointed to the mantle behind Aziraphale, desperate to change the subject. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“Mnh. Uhh. Bird. Behind you.” 

“Oh, this?” Aziraphale turned, reached over a white candle, and picked up the bronze duck. “It’s a duck.”

“Huh,” Crawley said, stepping closer. She touched its head, traced her fingers over its tender, sleeping face.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” said Crawley, shrugging on her shawl, “reminds me of Eden, is all.”

“That’s why I bought it, actually,” replied Aziraphale, a little wistfully. “They were such beautiful, soft things, weren’t they?”

“Mmhm. ‘Member that brown one? Climbed right into your hand, bold as anything, it did.” 

“I remember that. It bit you, if I recall rightly.”

“Cheeky little bugger,” Crawley agreed. “Right on the thumb.”

On principle, she held out her thumb, and they both inspected it. 

Aziraphale brought her hand to rest under Crawley’s. “Looks alright, now.”

“Two thousand years could not heal such a wound, I’ll have you know.” 

“Oh, tosh.” Aziraphale straightened Crawley’s silver shoulder clasp. “Get on home, now. I’ve kept you up silly.”

Crawley ambled home in the weak light of morning, thoughts all soft and blurry. What an excruciatingly gentle thing it could be, companionship. No wonder the humans craved intimacy, longed to hold each other close, told tales of that great union, beauty and terror. 

The years stretched before Crawley, long and bright as the rays in the east. Affection bloomed easily in her heart, rosy as the clouds that hung low in the sky, diaphanous as blood in water. The future had a distressing way of looking favorable, in the morning.

Light welled up and spilled over the hills on the horizon, and Crawley stopped to watch. By the end of the display, she’d almost considered waking early again to witness it again. _“Perhaps in another century,”_ she thought, as she strolled along. _“No need to be hasty.”_

  
  



	3. The Fall of Rome, 362-410 A.D.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale take a trip to the church of St. Agnes, in Rome, in the year 362 A.D., and Crowley receives more hurt than than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles* Here we go, babeys! Hope you enjoy the update. :>  
> Poem by Linden, as usual! This one is inspired by, yes, Roman grave poetry.

**_Three_ **

_AURELIAE SEVERINAE MATRIS SIMPLICIUS GORDIANUS FEC._

_Winter's evening has come to take you from your_

_ever loving kin, for whom you shone like raging_

_spring that burns with fiery light that like the sun I_

_yearn for, simple like your virtue; golden, darling._

_Held your ground against all pain and discord, chastely,_

_to a single one devoted til you turn to_

_ash and leave us here alone in agony to_

_wish you'd stayed on Earth forever and not to Heaven_

_gone. And yet we hope that once we can in future_

_times embrace, parting made undone by true belief._

_AURELIAE BENEMERENTI QUE VIXIT LX ANN VIII MEN DEP ID MAR_

  
  
  


**_Rome, Early Spring, 362 A.D._ **

“Ssso you’re telling _me,”_ Crowley said, pointing a swaying finger at Aziraphale. “You’re telling me,” he repeated, and stopped. 

Aziraphale giggled. 

“Shhhut up,” complained Crowley, pointing his finger again. “You’re telling me…” He lifted his chin triumphantly, “That you’d rather stay on Earth forever than go back to Heaven.” 

Aziraphale shifted a little in his seat. When he next spoke, he tried to hide his discomfort with determination. “Yes.”

Silence fell in their little corner. The _drip, drip_ of wine pooling on the floor, and the drunken chatter all around them hardly registered in Aziraphale’s mind as he looked at Crowley. 

The demon was sprawled heavily on the couch opposite, his plate of oysters all but shells. He’d cropped his hair shortly after the crucifixion, and it had gotten shorter and shorter over the subsequent centuries. Though Aziraphale had mourned the loss of those beautiful curls, he couldn’t help but admire _these_ styles too. Tight ringlets slicked close to Crowley’s head; a wide silver circlet resting on top; short, red bangs that rested lightly on his forehead, flying about wildly when Crowley blew out a breath.

Tonight, as Aziraphale waited for Crowley to piece his thoughts together, he watched Crowley’s lips on his wine cup, watched him breathe, squint, drum his fingers on the low table between them. There was a wild sort of beauty about Crowley, and Aziraphale delighted in getting him drunk enough to see it. They’d whiled away many a winter’s evening getting spectacularly pissed, trying to walk in straight lines, and failing fantastically. Aziraphale had just wanted to look at Crowley’s wheeling arms, spread akimbo in the air between them.

Crowley pushed himself up a little straighter. Oh, so this was a _point._ “Angel,” he began, then stopped. 

There was a brief pause.

“...Jolly good story, Crowley.” Aziraphale said. “Do you know who I saw in _Tibur_ last month? It was―”

Crowley waved a hand unsteadily. “You’re an _angel.”_

“Yes, dear.” Aziraphale felt that Crowley, perhaps, had begun drinking without him.

“Mhm. So.” Crowley waved another hand in the general direction of the sky. “That means you like it, up there.”

“Heaven? I don’t… _dis_ like it?” Aziraphale said. But he realized it was a lie the moment the words left his lips. “Well… it is a bit... _cold.”_

“That’s my point!” Crowley leaned forward with unexpected vigor. His eyes, usually hidden away, were on full display tonight, and they burned with a fiery intensity. 

All for _him._

All for Aziraphale.

~

For a moment, Aziraphale was lost, adrift in that warm, golden sea. He thought about a box he kept, under his bed in his room, two miles away. (It was also under any number of his beds; possibly at the same time― he’d never checked. The box was always just... _there_ when he looked for it.) In his head, Aziraphale knelt down, reached under his bed, and pulled it out. Polished ebony gleamed up at him, gilded all around the edges with tidy gold leaf. Upon opening it, (briskly, for the catch was sticky) bits of papyrus flew out, caught for a moment in the still air before drifting to the ground.

Aziraphale watched them fall. As each strip twisted, writhed as if it were burning, cramped lines of flowing, elegant longhand flashed into view. 

Inside, undisturbed by the fallen, lay fragments of _ostraka,_ into which more words, heady and frantic both, were etched.

A dozen poems, caught in time. Copied, borrowed phrases, all seamless and melodic and stolen. They held beautiful words, with meanings like _fire,_ and _hope,_ and _partnership._ Together, free in his mind’s eye, these words spoke the shape of Aziraphale’s heart. 

He’d watched the humans, from the very beginning. He’d ushered the first through a hole in the wall of Eden, after all. Witnessed their trials and tribulations, studied their mannerisms and that bright spark of innovation that drove them to create both beautiful and terrible things. He watched, wonderingly, as the first pair fought to stay together, despite a whole world intent on ripping them apart. 

So Aziraphale knew what _love_ meant, to the humans. Knew it meant _promise,_ and _benevolence,_ and _kinship._ He knew it could mean _passion,_ and _devotion,_ and _intimacy._ Sometimes, it meant _darling,_ and _dearest,_ and _lover._ It also meant _angel,_ depending on whom you asked. (Though Aziraphale held this as a mere coincidence. If it were true, Heaven would be a very different place.)

The bits of paper fluttered around him, came to rest upon the floor of his mind. He didn’t need to read them again, didn’t need to sit under the lamplight to know that this one meant _warmth,_ this one _trust,_ this one _affection._

Aziraphale loved many things. Wine was high on the list, closely followed by bread, and cheese, and oysters. He loved the Earth, and all its flowers and rivers and sand. He loved the deer that came to nuzzle grass out of his palms, the lions whose roars shook the very ground they stood upon. He loved the sky, and all its ephemeral hues. 

Aziraphale loved the humans, with their funny little games and instruments. Loved their penchant for turning lies into fantastical stories twisted through with bright threads of fate. Even when they hurt themselves, he loved them. He loved them as they destroyed their brothers, as they ruined their lives, as they burnt the soles of their feet on the roads to Hell. 

Aziraphale loved all things, because they were beautiful, and because he was built to. 

But he loved Crowley because he wasn’t.

Aziraphale’s first act of free will, his first real divergence from the Great Plan, and he used it to love. To love a demon. 

It was the easiest thing Aziraphale had ever done, falling in love with Crowley. It got hard, sometimes; but everything always did. Difficulty just made him hold his ground, dig his heels into the earth and set his jaw and love him harder.

Theirs wasn’t a holy alliance. It wasn’t even a cooperation, a lot of the time. But Crowley and Aziraphale had over four thousand years of companionship between them, and the hours they passed together were the most enjoyable of Aziraphale’s life. 

~

Back at the table, back with Crowley’s _eyes,_ Aziraphale heard Crowley rap on the table.

“That’s my _point,_ angel. You and Heaven don’t get along. But _we―”_ Here Crowley gestured between the two of them― _“We_ do. Isn’t that...” Crowley furrowed his brows, gestured vaguely with his wine cup, “y’know… _treasonous?”_

Aziraphale frowned, taking in the words, processing their meaning. “I don’t… We’re not...”

Crowley was practically off his couch, leaning over the table. “Demon, me. You’re an angel. Supposed to be opposites.” 

Aziraphale put down his cup, the aftertaste of the sweet wine souring on his tongue as he understood. “Are you asking me to leave?”

Confusion flickered across Crowley’s face, quick as lightning. “No.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Aziraphale felt his cheeks growing hot with presumption, but he didn’t back down. _(He tried to shove away the heavy questions that Crowley’s words had sown in his mind, tried to outlast their feverish roots― but it didn’t work. It never did, with Crowley.)_

A beat of silence.

“Sorry,” mumbled Crowley, slumping back into his seat. “Think I’ve had too much to drink.”

Aziraphale’s thoughts were scattered fragments of mirror, but even so, he scrambled to gather them up, put the words together that would diffuse the situation without an explosion. He felt like a child, his hands too large, the shards disintegrating under his touch.

“No, no,” he said, hurriedly, still fumbling. “It’s quite alright.”

“It’s not,” Crowley sighed, but without any hint of malice.

And it wasn’t. It never would be, for them. But the tension had melted away from Crowley’s forehead, the animosity from the air, and for now… 

For _now,_ Aziraphale could _breathe._

In the coming years, Aziraphale would sit up at night, staring unseeing as darkness descended around him. He would think about Crowley. About Heaven. About everything he wasn’t supposed to do, and that he did anyway. He thought about love, and about humans. He thought about his poems, safe in their ebony box.

Aziraphale loved words. Loved the shape of them on his tongue, the way meanings shifted and changed through the years; the way languages broke apart and merged, became synonymous with cultures, entrenched themselves underground after decades of neglect. He loved the feel of Crowley’s name on his lips, the round _o_ that melted into a _y_ with a smile. 

And Aziraphale loved Crowley― but he had yet to find a word that encompassed the depth of his feelings. And since _he_ didn’t yet have a word, he borrowed from those who did. He copied down the feelings he couldn’t express out loud, kept them in a wooden box under his untouched bed. 

And terrible, _awful_ Crowley, oh, he’d gone and _ruined_ a perfectly good coping mechanism. Now, he seasoned his joy with a pinch of _regret,_ a hint of _shame._

They were friends; but what did that _mean?_

_“Angels have friends,”_ he would retort to himself. Michael and Lucifer had always been on pretty good terms... though perhaps they were a poor example. And what was a friend, really? Someone to break bread with, surely. Someone who sat through penny plays just to see you smile all the way home. Brought you gifts, remembered your birthday. 

Aziraphale didn’t have a birthday, but Crowley brought him a good bottle of wine every April 17th all the same. 

Surely, such a love couldn’t be wrong. Crowley made Aziraphale _happy,_ and happiness was an angel’s specialty. So for now, he simply indulged in Crowley’s company, invited him to the theater, watched him grudgingly accept the odd grape or slice of bread, and paid for his anxiety alone, when there was no one to watch him fall apart.

* * *

_**Rome, Spring, 362 A.D.** _

All Crowley could see when he looked at Aziraphale was pain. Strife. Soaring, weeping, violins; blood, hot and slick on cooling soil; tears, rage, crushing loneliness. Black feathers littering the pavement; how did an Earthly angel fall? 

Nothing good could come of it. Secrecy was what turned sane people mad; what spurred on the clocks; what felled empires to nothing more than scattered dust and whispered tales.

So when Aziraphale looked at him with his big, expressive eyes, his good-natured pout, his widest smile… Crowley looked away. 

Or tried to.

He knew what happened to angels who loved too much, loved the _wrong way._ He remembered the agony, the hollow chest, the aching shoulders. 

The _fall._

Aziraphale would survive it, of course, as he did all else. He would bear it with dignity, his chin lifted, his back straight.

Crowley would be the only one left to break. 

It was self-preservation, he told himself. Nothing worse than attachment; isolation was just early self-defense. Don’t look him in the eye when you ask him to dinner. Don’t remember the way his face lights up when you bring him wine. Don’t love him, not like this. 

_Don’t love him the way he loves you._

And Aziraphale did love him. Loved him, was _in love_ with him in as many ways as an angel could be. 

And that was why it hurt. Crowley would have preferred centuries of morose, unrequited pining to _this._ Would have been human, mortal, _finite,_ just to have the strength to do away with this eternal, unspoken vow of secrecy.

But Crowley was a coward, and Crowley loved Aziraphale, and that meant Crowley couldn’t let him fall. Because, _(and this― this thing that kept him up at night―_ this _was the worst of all―)_ it would be _Crowley’s_ fault.

So, a week later, when Crowley received a letter in Aziraphale’s sloping script containing a request to rendezvous at the church of Saint Agnes, Crowley’s initial reaction was to toss the letter into the fire. The fire in the tavern common room wasn’t lit, however, so Crowley grumbled over to retrieve the missive and returned to stew, slouching, to his bench.

The letter, when he could read it without wanting to discorporate on the spot, informed him that _Aurelia Severina,_ a widowed and lively patron of the church of St. Agnes had passed away. _“It’s the sort of thing one does,”_ insisted Aziraphale’s steady hand, _“When a patron passes away. And besides, what a perfect place for a clandestine meeting!”_

This was all problematic for two reasons. Firstly, because Crowley was going to have a really fun time explaining to Hell that the woman he’d been influencing for the last forty years had died of bloody _natural causes_ before he could tempt her into sin, and secondly, because she was buried in the catacombs of a church _._

Recklessness, that’s what this was. How was he supposed to protect _himself_ from such danger, let alone Aziraphale? If either Heaven or Hell discovered their― _arrangement…_ well, the game would be up, wouldn’t it? Secrecy might have been terrible, but at least it kept them _alive._ And Crowley much preferred being alive to being _non-existent,_ thank you very much.

But Crowley would do a lot of things for Aziraphale; a lot of things that would leave his fingers burnt with longing, his lungs blackened with choked back desire. Sometimes, he hated himself for it, all this altruism. And sometimes, he called God foul names, and asked Her _why_ a hundred times over, just to feel the weight of his insignificance press him further into the Earth.

So, when Crowley found himself staring at the thick wooden door that barred the catacombs from the world above, he wasn’t even surprised. He wasn’t about to tell Aziraphale that he couldn’t walk on consecrated ground. He couldn’t _spell_ consecrated, for one thing, so he couldn’t have written back unfavorably _anyway._ For another thing, Crowley sort of… wanted to see what would happen? The risk of discorporation was low, he thought. And besides, it was probably safe enough. What kind of demon would risk consecrated ground just to see what Crowley was up to? Not Hastur, or Ligur, _that_ was certain. 

He would be safe.

Crowley squared his shoulders, and faced the offending door. _“Surely,”_ he thought. _“Can’t be that bad, can it?”_

The iron handle was cool to the touch, and the door hardly made a sound as he tugged it open. He allowed himself _one more second_ of self preservation, and then―

Crowley stepped over the threshold. 

And nothing happened.

He smirked, and took another step.

In a flash, the pain caught up with him. Crowley hopped, one foot tingling as the other bore his weight. Then his _other_ shoe began to sizzle ominously, and he skipped forward, each step a bright, brief flare of pain.

Crowley swore, hopping like a one-legged crow. Balance was an angel’s game; _he_ wasn’t even supposed to have _knees._

“Dignified,” he managed to mutter derisively, before tipping over.

When Aziraphale did finally arrive, he found Crowley lounging on a thin wooden bench, his feet crossed at the ankle where they hung off the edge. A vague smell of singed leather hung about.

“Good of you to meet me here,” Aziraphale began, his lovely voice ringing out loudly in the close space. Internally, Crowley winced.

“Really wasn’t,” he replied. He didn’t move. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Let’s go in then, shall we?”

“Lead the way, angel.”

And so it went that an angel, glowing softly, led a demon through the twisting halls of the St. Agnes catacombs. Thin spaces, the width and height of a prone body, were carved into the walls in stacks. Crowley could feel the weight of all the bodies around him as if they were alive, pressing into his space, using up all the thin oxygen in the room. Technically, he didn’t need to breathe. But he’d grown accustomed to the practice in his long centuries away from Hell, and he was beginning to remember why lungs were overrated. Phantom figures loomed into his space, and pressed in at him, hissing and taunting and reminding him horribly of his first years after the fall.

Down here, the pain in his soles was even worse _._ If Crowley had been the praying type, he would have done his best to manifest Saint Agnes’s grave into a crypt a hundred leagues away. As it was, all he could do was _hope_ very, _very_ fervently that Aurelia Severina’s final resting place wasn’t nearby any martyr bones. 

Aziraphale kept up a steady stream of mindless chatter as they ducked through stone archways, and paused (terribly, painfully) to admire the odd carving or gilded painting.

Crowley shivered throughout the whole journey, chilled to the bone with a vague and anxious intuition that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The burn in his feet had reached a fever-pitch as they passed underneath the consecrated ground upon which the church itself rested. Now, as his suspicion rose, the pain settled down to a heated, stabbing _throb_ that Crowley could mostly block out.

The grave of the late Aurelia Severina was a fine thing, larger than the other nearby tombs and freshly painted with scenes of the good shepherd wandering through Heavenly fields.

_“Hah,”_ Crowley thought, a little savagely, _“there aren’t any fields in Heaven.”_

Just then, A pulse of divine power stung the back of Crowley’s eyes.

He blinked rapidly. This old widow hadn’t been particularly _holy,_ Crowley knew, and Aziraphale’s divinity didn’t make his eyes water, even at such a close distance.

_(At this point, he was too familiar with the angel’s particular brand of power; it merely felt like a slightly scratchy, over-warm wool sweater.)_

So what _was_ that?

But Crowley’s battered mind couldn’t find something to do about it other than looking about for its source in a vague, bleary sort of way, so the sensation slipped away, swept under the rug of his already clouded mind. 

Aziraphale tentatively reached out to touch the engraving on the tomb. His finger, still glowing vaguely, illuminated the words as he spoke them into the still air. _“AURELIAE SEVERINAE MATRIS SIMPLICIUS GORDIANUS FEC,”_ he read, quietly. “Winter’s evening has come to take you…”

A headache was beginning to pound wetly in behind Crowley's eyes. Something was _wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrongwrong―_

Shaking his head vigerously, Crowley tried to focus.

“... for whom you shone like raging spring, that burns with fiery light... that like the sun I yearn for, simple like your virtue; golden… darling.” Aziraphale breathed, and momentarily, even Crowley paused his spiraling to listen. He always _was_ spellbound by Aziraphale's voice.

The angel sniffed, twisting his ring around his pinky finger. “She was so lovely. Always had _mulsum_ when I came ‘round.” His voice wobbled.

“It’s a nice... spot,” Crowley offered faintly, still looking around for the source of that stabbing divinity, and frowning. “Y’know, as graves go. It’s― hey, angel,” he said, turning back, the beginnings of an exhausted smile seeping into his voice. “It’s _engraved―”_

But Aziraphale was gone. 

Crowley opened his mouth. “What―”

“Little demon,” crooned a satisfied, searing voice.

_(―Anywhere, Crowley would know that voice anywhere. You don’t often forget a voice that has the power to toss you righteously into a pool of boiling sulfur.)_

“Always so full of _questions,”_ continued Michael. “Watches his _own_ back _so well._ How’s that working out for you, _Crowley?”_ One hand gripped Aziaphale’s shoulder, and he writhed in her grasp, squirming away viciously, instinctually; like a rabbit caught in a snare. The other hand splayed out towards Crowley, rooting him to the floor. He stared back at her, gritting his teeth against a growl of pain as his feet ground into the floor.

Michael was walking away. It was hard to comprehend; one moment, she was close, and the next, Crowley just caught a glimpse of Aziraphale’s shoulder and a cut-off yell as he was shoved efficiently around a corner. 

_“Aziraphale―”_ Crowley shouted, voice ringing, legs kicking into motion of their own volition, feet churning the dusty, shadowed ground. 

_(Step forward, and he’s been throwing himself away for Aziraphale for six thousand long, desperate, secret years. But step back, step back, and he’s offering his hand, offering his life, his livelihood, his_ name, _all of it spilling off his lips like water, like_ _love.)_

By the time Crowley turned the corner, the only sign of Aziraphale’s presence was a patch of dusty, dissident footprints and the dim, muted echo of Aziraphale’s usually fire-bright divinity. 

_He’s not gone._

_Simply departed._

The platitude didn’t make it any easier to bear.

Aziraphale, paused. Aziraphale, _taken._

_“And it’s because of_ you, _you useless demon. Can’t save yourself; did you honestly expect to be able to protect_ him?” 

Crowley stood, rooted to the spot, staring at nothing, as the shadows stole in close around him. Grief pricked his eyes, streaking hot tracks down his cheeks. His head ached; Michael’s presence had left pulsing white spots in his vision that wouldn’t fade. Still, he didn’t move.

Eventually, though, there was nothing for it but to leave the way he’d come. His feet screamed as his fading terror relinquished control of his stiff limbs, and, still tender from their first burn, grew ever more reluctant to carry him back up the way he’d come. As he passed beneath the church, he forced himself into a stooping run, hissing all the while. The stairs lessened the sting, and it was with immeasurable relief that he tumbled through the wooden gate and onto the grass beyond. Evidently, his punishment was even then incomplete, as his headache intensified to a bright, stabbing misery as he stepped out from behind the shadow of the church.

~

The worst part of it all, Crowley thought, when he once more became capable of conscious thought, was that he hadn’t even _enjoyed_ breaking this rule. His whole time beneath the church had felt wrong, jinxed, irreverent. And not even the _good_ sort of irreverence, the kind he was supposed to be… well… _good_ at. No, if Crowley had at all believed in fate, he would have called this an _omen._ And _not_ the good kind.

He was _never_ stepping foot in a church again.

Actually, Crowley could argue that tending to his burns was worse than the philosophical distress. Not since his fall had he needed to heal from an injury the _long_ way. The human way. And wasn’t that just it? A punishment fitting the crime. A cut that wouldn’t heal.

Aziraphale’s muffled yell, his tidy toga bunched in Michael’s firm grasp, on loop after sickening loop. And he, Crowley, just _standing_ there, unable to do anything but _stutter_.

Every time Crowley gritted his teeth and re-dressed his burns, he placed another proverbial glass brick in front of that memory. Easy to see through, yes. (Had to keep your grief fresh, stay on your guard.) But there was a reason Crowley kept his feelings close. _Break glass in case of emergency,_ but not before. Wait until the right moment, hold your tongue, and then they’ll be sorry.

Shortly after his return to his flat in Rome, Crowley received a message that suggested, in no uncertain terms, that if he were ever again discovered in the company of the angel Aziraphale, he would be cordially invited to an eternity in the deepest pit. Crowley lifted the paper to his nose. It smelled violently of lavender. Attached to the missive with an bent paperclip was a hand-scrawled note, which read:

_Hah. Well done, Crowley. First interesting thing you’ve done this century. Keep up the bad work._

_―Beezlebub_

Crowley exhaled, and turned over the grimy file card. The flip side read:

_**Name:** Eric Whatsit _

_**Title:** N/A there's like seven of him, honestly, i don't get it _

_**Crime:** too many Damnn bathtubss. don’t even ask. _

_―dagon_

Despite himself, Crowley smirked a little. Then he tossed both the card and the sleek letter into the fire, and sank back into his chair, his smile fading. 

Aziraphale had told him once that his mouth could make the straightest line he’d ever seen. Now, Crowley attempted it; but without Aziraphale opposite him to comment, his lips faded into a frown, the corners settling down to rest amid the melancholy.

_Aziraphale._ Even when he wasn’t there, the angel still appeared to Crowley in ghostly visions. Maybe this was Heaven’s plan all along; get Crowley to confess his sins through _isolation._

He shivered. Had it truly only been a week since Crowley had waxed poetic about the heroism of being alone? He took it back, everything he’d said about all those _centuries of unrequited longing._ He couldn’t do this, couldn’t be on his own, not like this. 

Not after all their dinners and wine and meandering conversations. Not after Aziraphale’s fingers had traced Crowley’s name over and over again in clay, teaching Crowley the words for his affection. 

_Not after they’d fallen in love._

Crowley leapt from his chair, paced the length of the hearth. His gaze fell wildly about the room, alighting on anything that reflected the minutest amount of light. The edge of a stack of silver coins; the polished bronze surface of a delicate hand-mirror; a glass, gold rimmed, where the dregs of red wine staining the bowl were shot through with gold. 

He shook his head violently. _Stop it stop it stop it stop it―_

Crowley was a perfectly respectable demon. He could function on his own. He could, and he would. He would be the most functioning demon in all of Hell, and wouldn’t _that_ show them. 

“Look at me,” he said to the empty room. “Seducing an angel, and not a single demon noticing. It was _Michael_ who found us. _Michael,_ the wanker.” He pursed his lips. “What a lot you are, never suspecting me. I could do just about―” He swallowed, stopped.

These were things he couldn’t say aloud. Not even to empty air.

He’d learned his lesson, now. 

Crowley would not― _could not―_ hurt Aziraphale. And if proximity meant injury… well. Crowley would stay away, wouldn’t he?

  
~

The rest of that year passed just as any other did. The leaves browned, dry and crackly in the hot Mediterranean sun. Then a chill wind swept them up and off the trees and spiraled them across the ground, where they came to rest in patterns, and were soon crumpled, wet, and buried underfoot. Frost dressed the branches then, albeit erratically, before it was melted by the cold winter sun.

And all at once, spring pushed out of the soil like it always did; overeager and bright and full of life.

Crowley despised it all.

Summer came, and so did autumn, and so did winter, and the seasons kept on turning, and turning, and turning.

Crowley purposefully ignored the bright thread of Aziraphale’s power as it flickered around the globe. He never followed him, never initiated communication. Dreadfully, he was reminded of their time post-Eden; circling each other like hawks, watching, and waiting for the other to call them down to Earth.

Aziraphale’s absence in Crowley’s life left angel-shaped carvings in his bones. The ones right over his heart, he'd discovered, hurt particularly. Crowley had tried so hard to keep those blameless. Snatches of conversation about ducks and bread and songs scored new lines upon his ribs, and then, when he breathed, his lungs caught, and stuttered. 

At first, Crowley had smooth the cuts over with wine, and when that made it worse, he’d tried just fucking off to Australia for a few decades. When he returned to Europe, sun-browned and irritable, all the places he’d known with Aziraphale were gone. 

_“Good,”_ he thought, _“finally some peace and quiet.”_

But there wasn’t any peace, not for him. Aziraphale haunted him, even from halfway across the world― Crowley even began hearing _tavern signs_ in Aziraphale’s voice. The angel was in his head in every possible way. 

The written word, although impressive, had been the bane of Crowley’s existence since its inception. He’d taken one look at the squiggly characters swimming before his eyes, and promptly set himself against them. Squiggles that didn’t even stay _still_ when you looked at them were _far_ too tricky to bother with. Then along came Aziraphale, with his beautiful hands, and his soft voice, and his easy patience, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to read him every tradesman’s ledger, every tablet of records he could get his hands on.

The ability to read had turned out useful, in the end, no matter how much Crowley had protested. The humans had gotten pretty keen on the idea, and soon, it wasn’t just accounting they transcribed. Stories, poetry. Oral histories, now written down. Passed from hand to hand as easily as coinage, as bread. Even before the collapse of Rome, Crowley found himself in the habit of catching phrases as they floated past, slipping them into folds of his toga until his feelings overflowed and everything drifted to the floor in a hopeless tangle of language and graceless affection. 

There were a hundred ways to say _I love you,_ Crowley had learned. 

More, if you didn’t use words. Crowley became an expert in non-verbal affection. He watched the humans lean in and pull away. Chin in their hand, listening. Wide eyes and gentle touches. Wine, a simple story, an excuse to stay; an evening spent in unexpected but not-unwelcome company.

Every so often, when he got spectacularly and despondently drunk, Crowley would let himself think of the terrible encore to his grief; the last time he’d seen Aziraphale, since he’d returned from Heaven. When he was drunk, Crowley couldn’t _remember_ why it was a bad idea to think about it, so all his defensive strategies _(“Don’t think about him, you bloody bastard, you just want to see yourself burn, don’t you?”)_ just sort of… dissolved.

It hurt, afterwards, of course. But love always did, didn’t it? Left a burn on your tongue and an ache in your heart that you couldn’t thump away.

* * *

**_Rome, 410 A.D._ **

_Crowley and Aziraphale met only once, that century, while the Visigoths pillaged Rome._

_All around them, people took flight; running away with only a tenuous hold on what belongings they could carry, their grief and fear trailing behind them in the air like so many tattered, red ribbons._

_Crowley’s mind roiled, hazed by the fear and overfull on desperation. Through the smoke and confusion, he saw a figure, as if conjured from a dream._

_(Miraculously white linen, so out of place amid the burning wreckage. The anxious, rounded tilt of those shoulders, so very much older even than the dark rubble they stood out against.)_

_The shouts and flames and screams and crashes faded, as ink dispersed in water._

_From very far away, a solitary flute blew a single, melancholy note._

_Aziraphale turned around, crushed cobble crumbling under his bare feet._ _And as they met eyes, suddenly, it was as if no time had passed, at all._

**_The catacombs. Aziraphale, glowing like a star in that cramped, shadowy crypt. Tracing the letters of an epitaph, reading them aloud as Crowley’s mind fuzzed with the sting of unfamiliar divinity._ **

_Crowley heard Aziraphale read the_ whole _inscription now, as clearly as though he whispered it in Crowley's ear._

**_“Winter's evening has come to take you from your ever loving kin…”_ **

_Before him, amidst the rubble, Aziraphale’s jaw worked, and he looked away. Eyes flicking between the fleeing refugees in quick, staccato beats matched only by Crowley's own heart._

**_“...for whom you shone like raging spring that burns with fiery light…”_ **

_Between them, a mother ran, clutching a young child to her breast. “Please,” she wept. “Save my baby!” She pressed the wailing bundle into Aziraphale’s pliant arms. “I cannot run any further.” She kissed the little bundle, lingering for a moment longer._

**_“...that like the sun I yearn for, simple, like your virtue; golden, darling.”_ **

_Crowley might as well have been a spirit, for all the good it did to reach out for Aziraphale, then. To lessen his burden, to comfort him; Crowley knew not his purpose. But he tried. He_ stayed, _waiting for a sign._

**_“...Held your ground against all pain and discord, chastely, to a single one devoted, til you turn to ash…”_ **

_Before them, the woman fell to the ground. Weakened by her flight, she could only look up once more, eyes on her crying child, before the light left her eyes._

**_“...and leave us here alone in agony... to wish you'd stayed on Earth forever, and not to Heaven gone.”_ **

_Crowley let his aching arms fall limply, and simply stared at Aziraphale, entreating. Forty-eight years. Half a century gone by, and not a glimpse of his angel. Only now, only as the Visigoths sacked Rome, as the holiness seeped out of the fallen city, taking with it its vitality― Only now, did he appear, and not for_ Crowley _at all._

**_“And yet…”_ **

_Aziraphale raised his eyes to Crowley’s._

**_“...we hope that once we can in future times embrace…”_ **

_The hard set of Aziraphale’s mouth softened, his eyes glassy, reflecting the flames. He opened his mouth, as if to speak―_

**_“...parting made undone…”_ **

_Crowley didn’t speak, didn’t dare breathe as the ghost of Aziraphale’s past spoke the last words of Aurelia Severina’s epitaph in his ear._

**_“...by true belief.”_ **

_Before his eyes, Aziraphale’s face crumpled._

_Baby still clutched in his arms, he turned away._

_And in a moment, Crowley was alone._

_Surrounded only by lonesome, hungry flames, he wept._

Have faith, _the poet had meant._ "Faith," _Crowley scoffed, kicking a cracked cobble._ "Faith _is for lovers."_

* * *

_**Europe, The 1300s.** _

And so the decades refashioned themselves into centuries, and the centuries toppled over, one by one, straight into the steaming heap that was the _fourteenth._

What terrible luck _that_ had to be. Famine, capering around half of Europe, followed closely by trigger-happy Pestilence. Death swept behind them all, though it was hard to tell his feelings on the whole matter. Crowley had met him before, and was unimpressed by his tendency to speak in rhymes and cryptic morals. _(“What rot,”_ he’d thought, shaking his head. _“No wonder the humans all fall for it― it’s loads better than_ Hell’s _marketing strategy, at any rate.”)_

Throughout it all, Crowley trudged; chin tipped up at an insolent angle, legs kicking viciously to stay afloat. That was what it meant to be a demon, wasn’t it? That _hope,_ however strained and blackened, that you would get a second chance. A chance to prove yourself; to show all the world that you’d been right all along. That if you couldn’t taste redemption, retribution was enough.

Crowley clung to his faith, when he had nothing else. He talked to God, when no one else was listening. Kept asking Her questions, shouting at Her, baring his soul to the one person to whom it didn’t matter. 

And even after everything, Crowley still waited, listened for a reply.

He didn’t get one; never had, really. 

But he waited, all the same.

And he _would_ wait. He could wait forever, for Aziraphale. And maybe that wasn’t the _best_ relationship model, but he’d never claimed to be perfect. 

Just daring and gallant to a fault, willing to bend over backwards for an angel he shouldn’t have known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you yelling? Crying? Concerned about the amount of Supernatural parallels in this chapter? Drop me a line in the comments! I'd love to hear your thoughts. :))
> 
> Also, a translation from Latin of the first and last lines of Aurelia Severina's epitaph, written by the lovely Linden:  
> "Simplicius Gordianus made this for his mother Aurelia Severina," and "for the well-earned Aurelia who lived 60 years and 8 months and was buried on March 15."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Leave a kudos and a comment if you so wish (´ ꒳ ` ✿)  
>  _Burning Red _updates biweekly on Tuesdays! Feel free to subscribe/bookmark so you know when we update. Until then, go forth, go forth I say, and read more fic!! (oh foolish Principality)__


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